


Cause and Consequence

by irisbleufic



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Danger, Historical Accuracy, Inspired by Music, London, M/M, Miracles, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-11
Updated: 2010-12-11
Packaged: 2018-01-02 05:42:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Listen to <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nX-h0SfdnSc"><b>this</b></a> while you're reading.  It was part of the prompt (in fact, it <i>was</i> the prompt).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cause and Consequence

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted to LJ in December of 2010.

By London standards, they're in a white-out. It's four-thirty in the afternoon, almost fully dark, when Crowley pulls Aziraphale down the narrow passage, which, thankfully, hasn't been locked up. Despite Aziraphale's protests, he hurries after Crowley through the swirling air, down narrow cobblestone streets, and into Temple Church.

Aziraphale sneezes as the heavy wooden door shuts behind them, plunging the entire space into dimness punctuated only by tea-lights flickering along the chapel's far wall.

"Let there be—" Aziraphale cuts himself off mid-murmur. " _Oh_."

Crowley follows the angel's pointing finger to where the line of candlelight breaks.

A dark-haired, black-clad figure stands before the row of softly glowing prayers, its head bowed. Crowley knows better than to let his imagination get the better of him, but he wonders if they haven't just wandered in on one of the dead knights come out for a stroll. The tall young man turns so that he's in profile, acknowledging them with the chilly glint of one pale eye before turning back to his eerie contemplation. 

_Not the religious sort_ , Crowley thinks. _He's in here for the same reason we are_.

"He's terribly upset," Aziraphale whispers. "I can feel it."

"No kidding," Crowley says. "Now, shut up. I think he wants to be left alone."

"It's the _last_ thing he wants," Aziraphale sniffs. "He's worried about the other chap—"

"Who was being chased through this winding death-trap," Crowley finishes. "Yes, angel. I _know_. We're playing with the same bag of tricks, remember?"

"Have a little more respect," sighs Aziraphale, wearily. "This is an Inn of Court."

If the young man can decipher their whispering even over the distance, he gives no sign of recognizing the fact that he's being discussed. He mutters something to himself every once in a while, which Crowley, given the advantages of his particular set of ears, can hear in fits and snatches: _why did I_ , _shouldn't have_ , and _John_.

What you can hear doesn't matter much, though, when you know what's happening because you can pull emotions, facts, and circumstances from the atmosphere around humans as easily as snatching an ill-clasped cloak from about their shoulders.

"He made an unwise decision," Crowley hisses. "The other one might well _be_ dead."

"Can you blame him?" Aziraphale asks. "When you've got only a second to think and splitting up might mean a chance at saving both your own skin and your friend's—"

Crowley laughs, then, low and bitter.

"Who said anything about friend? Try _lover_."

Aziraphale grows quiet, huffing into his scarf.

"You _know_ what I meant."

"I do," Crowley says. "I wonder if you feel the same things, is all. Fear. _Despair_."

"I suppose you're an expert in those," replies Aziraphale, tartly.

"You've given me a fright often enough," Crowley snaps. "So, yes. Arguably."

Aziraphale falls silent again, his brows knit in concern.

"Ought I try to fix this? It's just, somebody Upstairs might notice—"

Crowley closes his eyes, hands fisted tightly against his middle, and the world _bends_.

The door shudders open, and, in a rush of frozen air, someone slips inside.

The young man turns swiftly, his eyes alight with fire from no earthly source.

"Like that?" Crowley asks, watching the men rush to one another, fall to clinging. Unclenches his fists as his lungs expand without warning, shocked back into breath at the sight of this reunion. Their kiss is brief, but fierce. His eyes can't help stinging.

Aziraphale lets out a sigh of relief.

"All's well that ends well," he says cheerfully.

"We're leaving," Crowley announces, grabbing him by the arm.

"But the snow hasn't—"

" _Exactly_ ," says Crowley, vindictively, and leads them out the way they'd come.


End file.
